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Thursday, November 17, 2016

by Beth Saadati and Christa Saadati“To the peers at
school who bullied and hated on me (you know very well who you are): FYI, words
are painful, in case that never occurred to
you. People’s feelings are not something to be played with. Overall, it’s not
your fault that I’m gone now, but all of you played a huge role in it.

Being kind, or even vaguely amiable, can
literally save a life.”

–Jenna
Saadati, from the suicide letter she left behind

For this month’s blog post, let me introduce BITTERSWEET’S
first guest writer, Christa Saadati, my middle daughter. She shared a room with
Jenna and, despite a four-year age difference, was one of her sister’s closest
confidants and friends.

In October, Christa turned fourteen. She’s almost to-the-day
the age Jenna was when a peer delivered cruel words at school that altered her
perception of who she was. As a result of those spoken lies, a few months later
Jenna chose to end her life.

Christa was recently assigned an essay to write for
composition class. She chose a topic not on the list. Bullying. I’ll confess .
. . when I found out, I cried. Because I know the reason why.

But I’m proud of Christa for facing her loss instead of
running away. Although she struggles to forgive the wrong that’s been done, she
speaks with objective wisdom—wisdom birthed from a place of pain mixed with fond
memories of the older sister and BFF she loved and adored.

Without further ado, here are Christa’s words. They’re worth
being heeded and heard.

Saturday, July 30, 2016

“Every
story has a villain because yours
does. You were born into a world at war.”

–John
Eldredge, Waking the Dead

Once again I googled Jenna’s name.

Stop torturing
yourself, I thought. She’s been gone for a few years. You’ll never find anything new.

Sometimes it’s
good to be wrong.

In wonder I stared at the screen then clicked on the link.

There it was. Brightshadow. An early forty-page version of Jenna’s book I hadn’t realized she’d published
online. The precursor to the unfinished 58,000-word sci-fi/fantasy tale my
fourteen-year-old girl would download from her laptop to mine the day before she died.

Without hesitation or concern about cost, I grabbed my credit
card and ordered printed copies my remaining family could keep. Then, sight
fixed on the manuscript before my eyes, I skimmed pages to read the words Jenna had written in my real-life once upon a time.

On any other day, Morgan would have fought back for all she was
worth—but on this day she didn’t have any weapons besides her fists, and she
wasn’t stupid enough to think she could overpower Keathan by sheer strength.
Screaming for help was definitely an option, but something kept her silent.
Unlike some people’s perception, Morgan wasn’t all sharp corners and harsh
justice.

“Go ahead,” she
replied, her now-gentle eyes piercing through every layer of Keathan’s heart.
“But if you really want to find true courage—and I believe you do—then I can
swear to you on my life that hitting me until I’m half-dead isn’t it.” As she
pulled herself to her feet, the last rays of sunlight glinted off her hair and
face. Standing in front of her, Keathan halted his fist in midair. Light
flickered over her slender form, and he wondered why he hadn’t seen just how
beautiful she was before.

More than 2,000 viewers had met Keathan, Jenna's composite
character of the boys who’d bullied at school. And the protagonist, Morgan, who
was . . . her.

“I bet you know how it feels when you want to cry yourself to sleep
but you don’t because you think you have to be strong,” she replied. Keathan turned
towards Morgan. “I’ll bet you know how it feels when you have so much pain that
it settles down into a knot in the bottom of your gut and stays there for weeks
at a time. I bet you know what it’s like when everything hurts so bad that you
try to cry but you can’t.

You know. The heart knows its own sorrow. And
I’m sorry for calling you a coward that one time. You do have courage and you
do have honor, but you don’t let anyone see it. It’s like you have a wall
around your heart.”

Morgan spoke quickly,
for she feared her time to talk was short. “Something happened that hurt you,
so you built a force-field around yourself so nothing could touch you anymore. But
that’s not going to help in the long run. Because if you don’t take the risk of
letting things hurt you, you’ll never be able to let anyone in to help.”

Thursday, June 2, 2016

Told through Jenna’s eyes. Literary
license was taken with the point of view.

The details about her
graduation day, however, are all true.

I peek through
heaven’s portal. Though a lifetime separates me from family and friends, the veil
between heaven and earth is thinner than I’d thought.

Classmates and their
families enter the arena downtown. It’s where, in kindergarten, I sat in the
upper deck beside Mom and laughed, amazed, as we watched the circus perform.

This morning that same arena hosts a ceremony I should be at.

Today I graduate from high school—three and a half years
after I took my last breath.

The band I was once
part of plays “Don’t Stop Believin’,” while Southside High’s principal leads my
grandpa, parents, sister and brother to front-row seats. A moment later Mr.
Brooks introduces Mom and Dad to their ROTC escort—an ESCORT—named Brandon.
I’ll bet they hadn't expected that.

I love seeing them
shown honor. The reason for it is what I hate.

Mom fixes her sight
on my empty chair marked by a white bow and the cap and gown I’ll never
wear. Then “Pomp and Circumstance” commences, and my classmates file by. I look
twice. They’ve changed from 14-year-old teens into young women and men.

As Delia, one of my
favorite school friends, walks past, she notices Mom, smiles big, and waves.
Thankful, I want to hug her for doing what I no longer can.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

“Given the opportunity, Jenna wouldn’t make the same choice
again. But she also wouldn’t want her death to be in vain. She would want us to
learn from it so we can live as overcomers. As victors. Her letter and writings
are a rare gift.” -Dr. David Cox, counselor

A 14-year-old daughter’s suicide note? A gift? My thoughts reeled the day after
Jenna’s death as a few close friends, my husband, and I braced ourselves for
the reading of the three-page letter police had discovered on her thumb drive.

In shock, I heard the false accusations that had snaked
their way into Jenna’s mind. Since then, I’ve reread the letter a hundred times
and silently answered seven of its lies.

Dear
Family and Extended Family,

I’m
really sorry for leaving you like this. Honestly I am. During the last few
months of my life I was incredibly depressed. You just didn’t notice since I
put up a good front most of the time.

You
probably want to know why on earth I decided to do this. Well, for some reason,
ever since I turned twelve I’ve realized something—I was always a loser. Sure,
I had a few friends, but overall everyone either ignored me, thought I was
stupid, or outright hated me.

Lie
#1: I’m a loser.

You
weren’t, Jenna. You were spectacular, as your science teacher said. Lots of
people liked you. Many of them really
liked you. It’s just that, when depression settled in, it blinded you from seeing
who you truly were, tainted your perception of the way you thought your peers
viewed you, and deceived you into thinking others didn’t care.

I don’t
know what’s wrong with me to make me so unpopular. Yeah, I’m not pretty, but
look at Eleanor Roosevelt, Dolly Madison, and some other girls I know. Nothing
stops them from having happy lives.

Lie
#2: I’m too unattractive or unpopular
to be loved.

What
teenage girl—or woman of any age—doesn’t struggle to feel like she measures up
to the images that surround her? The truth is you were beautiful, even during
those awkward early teen years. But even if you hadn’t been, your immeasurable
worth has nothing to do with external beauty or any social-ladder rung.

Towards
the end, I began to think that maybe I suffered from clinical depression. Well,
maybe. So what could I do about it? Stay on Prozac all my life? Like that would
work.

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

It took nearly three years and one month. Or, to be precise,
1111 days.

It took seeing the cruel swirl of ambulance lights,
attending another funeral, grieving the beautiful life of a young man gone too soon.

It took reliving the nightmare of the evening I was
delivered the devastating news about my daughter before I could face what I
hadn’t yet been able to do.

Once upon a time I’d taken pride in meticulous organization
and the gleaning of anything unused. Not anymore. I could no longer step into
my side of the small walk-in wardrobe. Overflowing with baskets, bags, and
boxes, my bedroom closet heaved and swelled like a dam about to burst.

The tangible memories of what once was engulfed me. Jenna’s
trophies, plaques, awards. Special logo tee-shirts. Her marching band hat.
The white blouse she wore to play Juliet in an eighth-grade skit. A ballet
dress she’d twirled in, a pearl bracelet presented to her on the evening of her
only formal dance. School papers. Funeral cards. Notes.

And so much more—all of it screaming Jenna was here.

Now it begged for
closure, except closure is for bank accounts. It was never meant for love.

Sunday, February 28, 2016

From 5-9 p.m. the Mackey Mortuary visitation line refused to
end. Truth be told, I didn’t want it to. In order to stand, I needed the
comforting presence of family and friends.

One after another they paused then passed by. From Miracle
Hill Ministries, where my husband worked. The places where I taught. City Church.
My daughter’s schools. Jenna’s extra-curricular activities—orchestra, Awana,
homeschool co-op, Upward and rec-league sports. And, at the end, the entire
Southside High School marching band.

Beautiful faces met my gaze with unspoken questions and
tears. With tenderness, “I’m sorry” was said again and again. A scent-blend of
perfume and cologne lingered on my clothes as I cherished the warmth of held
hands and hugs.

And I cried when a friend whispered the words I’d begun to
doubt: “You were a good mom.”

But the unexpected occurred when John Burdick—Sterling
School’s science teacher everyone loved, whom Jenna had confided in and
considered a friend—and his wife, Kathy, stood there.

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Beth Saadati

Beth is a teacher, writer, wife, mother, and friend. Valuing life more than ever after the death of her teenage daughter, she shares story to offer insight, understanding, and hope to those who may be contemplating suicide and to those who have endured the aftershocks of it. (photo courtesy of Mary Denman)